


Choices

by coveredbyroses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, F/M, Loss, Non-Sexual Bondage, Revenge, Spells & Enchantments, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 12:12:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18850828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses
Summary: Life’s all about choices. This one was always in the cards.





	Choices

It was alway going to come to this. You knew it, the brothers knew it. It was this unspoken, terrible truth that laid dormant in the deepest pockets of your minds, hung stagnant in the air above you on every case.

It’s laid out bare now, in the dark, dank space between you. She’s the picture of femme fatale with her honey blonde hair, ruby fingernails, and shiny pistol. A witch - the daughter of one very powerful witch the Winchesters had pumped with silver some three years ago. “Choices,” she says, voice honeyed and penetrating. She’s slotted herself in the narrow space between you and Sam, where you’re bound tight to identical wooden chairs. She lays a hand on each of your shoulders, the threatening weight of the gun cold and heavy on yours.  “Life’s  _all_  about choices, wouldn’t you agree?” She cackles smoky. “Like - me and my mother. You had a choice then, didn’t you? You slaughtered her… and spared me. Regretful, that decision.”

Dean sits centered and facing you, bound just as tight. His jaw is set so rigid you can almost feel the pain of it in your own. “You were just a  _kid_ ,” he says, his eyes a slow drag up to hers.

“Not anymore.” Her words hiss out quick and cold, oozing with a seething hatred that only comes with vengeance. “So,” she chirps. “Make your choice.” She drags manicured nails through Sam’s hair. “Your brother…” The cool metal of a pistol’s barrel glides along the smooth dip of your neck and shoulder. “Or your lover?”

“Me,” Sam says, and it’s so predictably automatic, so very  _Sam_ , that you almost roll your eyes. The witch bends down, plucks the shell of his ear with her bleached teeth.

“I wasn’t asking  _you_ , pretty boy.”

“This isn’t gonna bring her back,” Dean says, working hard at keeping his voice fluid and steady. “This won’t make it better.”

“No,” she says, straightening. “But there’s a lesson here. A lesson you…  _barbarians_  would do very well to learn.” She waits a moment, watches the condescension burrow into Dean skin. She laughs light and airy when his lips pull into a defiant smirk. “You see,” she continues, keeps stroking at Sam’s hair, pet-like. “Whatever choice you make here… You’ll carry it with you. Every hunt. Every time you’re faced with taking one life or another… You’ll remember this very moment.”

“Next time we won’t leave survivors,” Dean grits. “Not even pretty, misty-eyed little girls.” His voice has gone stony, eyes glossy and still, but she she laughs again.

“See?” she says. “You’ll do it  _right_  next time. Complete.” Your own temper blazes underneath the panic - so pompous, the bitch, preaching the art of hunting to hunters.

Dean’s mouth opens and closes, and then, “Oh, we will.” It’s a threat; a promise, but it holds no weight under fear-stricken eyes.

Beside you, Sam grunts deeps and gravelly, then lets out a pitiful breath. “Don’t wear yourself out, handsome,” the blonde says, sure and silvery. “That magic pumping through your veins? That’s the real restraint. The ropes are mere reinforcements.” One look at him, and her words ring true; a bright light gleams in long corded lines along his arms and sprouts up his neck, dimming only when his screams die, and he relaxes again. You feel it too, blood too hot under your skin. She’s got you under her claws. All of you.

“Choose, Dean,” she says, “Or I drop them both.”

Your eyes meet Dean’s, and he gives you a look; this soft, broken look that both makes your gut churn and your heart crack right down the middle. You smile though, because this was always one of the many endings, and when it came to Sam, that was really no choice at all.

There’s a peace to it too, you were never perfect, but you figure you’ve done enough good in the world to earn yourself a room along a long, bright hallway. “Good,” you whisper. “It’s good.” Sam whips his head to you, then back at Dean.

“No,” he rasps, then huffs out a stupefied breath. “Dean - no!”

“Sam, please.” You look at him wide-eyed and hopeful. “This is how it’s supposed to be.” He shakes his head tight, hazel eyes already welling up.

The witch is giggling again, oh so pleased. It  _amuses_  her, your pain. “Oh, this is  _delicious_ ,” she says, voice high and ringing. “Just look at you all.” Her heels clack against the floor as she rounds you. She takes her time drinking in the sight of you; shared in rope and magic and pain. “So much worse than death, isn’t it?” Her voice has fallen flat. Her eyes flick over to Dean, who’s closed his own, jaw pulsing under his skin.

But this okay, really - because you were never much of a hunter anyway. You could hold your own on smaller jobs, but you were much more comfortable back at the bunker, neck-deep in lore. The world needs Sam and Dean Winchester. It can survive without you. So you smile easy, mouth an  _I love you_ at Dean, and he smiles grim as the tears slip down.

Sam’s screaming now, jerking against the ropes and lighting up with the spell - but you really wish he wouldn’t because you’d like for this to be as peaceful as an execution  _can_  be.

“Look at me, Sam,” Dean says, drawing his eyes to his brother’s, keeps him distracted because he doesn’t know how to watch you die, but he knows how to do this.

The bang is loud, but Dean yells Sam’s name as she pulls the trigger because this way he can focus on his own voice rather than - than that.

True to her word, the woman killed the spell with a snap of her slim fingers, and let them go, leaving before the men could muscle out of the ropes.

*

She’s dead now, the witch. She should have known better, and maybe she did - maybe this was a choice, a suicide of her own. Sam thinks so, says as much during the drive back, as the rain pounds against the roof and windshield of the Impala. “She didn’t even try to fight back, he says.“Like she knew we were coming.”

“‘Course she knew,” Dean says back, satisfied but hollow. “She always knew.” Sam nods and tucks his hair behind his ear.

“I miss her,” Sam says, soft, and Dean nods, but doesn’t answer.

“It’s done,” Dean says after a tick. “Now we move on. Like we always do.”

Thunder cracks somewhere above in the murky night sky and the Impala growls up to ninety.


End file.
